Lucy Vickery

Creative spark

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In Competition No. 3041, to mark the centenary of the birth of Muriel Spark, you were invited to submit a poem with the title ‘The Ballad of [insert place name here].

I admired Paul Carpenter’s nod to Ken Dodd (‘The Ballad of Knotty Ash’) and David Silverman’s caustic, comic ‘Ballad of Westgate Shopping Centre’, but the prizes go to those printed below, who take £25 each.

The Ballad of Mar-a-Lago

In the gold of the Florida sunshine,

Where gunplay enlivens the air,

The rich pay to hang with the richer

At the President’s opulent lair.

With its beach-blanket, surfer-dude moniker

And its six-figure membership fees,

This joint is the acme of classy,

Like those White House Seals marking the tees.

This enclave is stately like Vegas,

With the gilt of imperial Rome.

The Golfer-in-Chief has decreed it

His own customised pleasure dome.

He meets here with all the top leaders.

He shows them his bombs and his cake.

Someone’s sure to be turning a profit

On the fabulous deals they all make.

Chris O’Carroll

The Ballad of Watford Gap

O I have been to Watford Gap

And I have passed between its tors

And I have eaten many a snack

Within its service station doors.

In Watford Gap there dwelt the Saxons —

Dwelt also Normans, cruel and coarse:

Cars and barges jostle thither

Where Watling Street heard Roman horse.

‘O have you been to Watford Gap

And is it hard by Patchetts Green?’

‘Alas, fair maid, beshrew thy maps —

A different Watford dost thou mean.’

No sea brims over Watford Gap,

No river fills its surly mouth:

But Southerners may sense the North

And Northerners may greet the South.

Bill Greenwell

The Ballad of Morningside

The girls who live in Morningside

Are not of slender means,

For this is Edinburgh posh;

These little girls are queens.

Their dreams are never troubled

By things which seem absurd —

Of nunneries, or of closed doors.

They’re not to be disturbed.

From Morningside they sally forth

Just after breakfast time,

To learn more than the facts of life

From a teacher in her prime.

Nobody ever rings them up

To tell them they must die.

Sex and religion fill the world

From here to Peckham Rye.

Brian Murdoch

The Ballad of Reyston Cross

No one foresaw the motorway

Would bring commuters down

And turn into a dormitory

What was a sleepy town.

You couldn’t blame the farming folk

Who cashed in on their land,

You couldn’t blame the councillors —

It wasn’t what they planned.

The neighbouring county’s superstore

Was what hit High Street trade;

Now Amazonian predators

Invisibly invade.

They didn’t knock down Reyston Cross,

They siphoned off its soul,

And where its heart for centuries stood

They left a yawning hole.

W.J. Webster

The Ballad of Silicon Valley

When Gougal Douglas came to town,

He saw how things were run.

We toiled at jobs the livelong day;

We had no time for fun.

He gave us social media

So we would not be squares.

He got us all to use our cars

To save folks taxi fares.

He showed the news was all online;

We send it to our pals

Along with kitty videos

And pics of naked gals.

His motto ‘Don’t Be Evil, guys’

We’ve grown to understand.

To work for pay was such a bore.

To work for free is grand!

Max Gutmann

The Ballad of Maple Park

They’re men who live in Maple Park

whose wits are cold as snow,

who warm themselves on barbed ripostes

and commenting below.

These men who live in Maple Park

draw down the internet

and find themselves reflected in

like-minds they’ve never met.

The Maple Park men air their views

to such as care to scan

and, hunched with fingerprinted screens,

feel this is man-to-man.

Women whose home is Maple Park

(their real-world address)

prefer the cheery face-to-face

of kindred sisterness.

D.A. Prince

No. 3044: let’s talk about sex

You are invited to provide a lesson in the facts of life courtesy of a well-known character in fiction (please specify). Email entries of up to 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 11 April, please.